


Destruction in His Wake

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughtless words can cut deep, and the wound isn't easy to repair</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [of_too_minds](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=of_too_minds).



Angel stared at Wesley, opening and closing his mouth several times before he finally managed to get the words out. "Could - could you say that again? Because it sounds like you just suggested that we hire Spike."

"I did." The Englishman held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests. "Angel, we're trying to turn a multi-dimensional, thoroughly evil law firm around. We need any help we can get, and while you and he may not be on the best of terms, Spike is a strong fighter with unquestioned loyalties that we would do well to court as an employee."

"Spike's an out of control brawler that I wouldn't trust to take care of my goldfish." Anger was replacing amused disbelief quickly.

"You don't have any goldfish." One eyebrow rose to accentuate the dry tone that sometimes reminded him all too much of William for comfort.

"Don't get cute, Wes. You know full well what I mean. Spike's a loose cannon. We need fighters, heroes and -"

"Champions?" This time there was no sarcasm, no wit behind the pointed remark and look. Wesley was right and he knew it. "He's earned a little leeway, wouldn't you say? I'm not proposing we throw him a parade, just offer him a salary and apartment in exchange for his help on staff. Personally I think we'd be getting the better end of the deal."

The chair hit the wall with a thud as Angel shot to his feet, hands slamming down on the desk. "Absolutely not! He's not some big hero, Wes. He's worthless, plain and simple. The only thing he's ever been useful for was being good to beat on, and I've already got a punching bag."

A soft gasp from the office doorway made both men look over. Fred stood just outside the open door, the scientist's hand raised to cover her mouth, her eyes filling with tears at the cruel words that had sought to so easily dismiss her friend. But it was the black-clad figure next to her that gave Angel pause for the first time since the argument had started. Spike didn't move, didn't say a word, but it was obvious that he'd heard everything that was said. Seconds stretched out over an eternity as the four stood in a frozen tableau that only ended when Spike turned and walked off down the hall.

"Spike, wait -" Fred called after him, but he didn't listen. The brunette watched him retreat and then whirled around and stormed into Angel's office, slamming the door behind her. She advanced furiously on the vampire, her eyes all but spitting fire. "How could you say such an awful thing? Do you even have a _clue_ how badly you just hurt him? Not to mention the fact that all of that was an out and out lie! And do you know what the worst part is? He's gonna believe it!" The files that she had been carrying were slapped down on the desk. "Here's that information on the demon you killed last night, by the way."

Wesley shook his head when Fred glanced at him, although it was obvious what the response to their plan had been, and got to his feet. "I'll see myself out, Angel." His icy tone and disapproving blue eyes made it clear what he thought of his employer. Taking Fred's hand, the Watcher ushered her out of the room, wrapping his arm around her shoulders when she turned into him out in the hallway.

There was a soft click as the door swung closed, leaving Angel alone in his office, still standing behind his desk. "Yeah, I know," he whispered, finally answering Fred's question, the words falling heavily in the stillness. He had known as soon as he saw Spike's face, but couldn't acknowledge it to anyone except himself. "I've broken my boy." Now if only he could figure out how to make him whole again.


	2. Chapter 2

_"He's worthless, plain and simple. The only thing he's ever been useful for was being good to beat on..."_ Angel's voice chased him all the way down to the basement, where he finally stopped, but there was no outrunning them. He'd hear them until he was dust again, he was sure off it.

Spike fell to his knees, the words that looped through his mind slashing at something inside him, creating a bleeding wound worse than any he could remember. Even the Slayer, with her unknowing echo of that bitch Cecily, hadn't managed to strike this deep, straight to the very core of his being with words that negated everything he ever hoped to do and denied every facet of the man he'd sought to be. It was all about the words for him. Always had been, really. They were the one constant in his long life, the companions that hadn't ever left, so he supposed it was fitting that they were the instrument of his undoing at last.

It's just... why now? He'd learned, or thought he had, to play nice with the humans and even enjoy their company. He'd helped Buffy on patrol and in a fight that she'd admitted she couldn't win without him. He'd even begun to feel like he might be finding a place on the outskirts of Angel's team, maybe even showing Angel that he could do the right thing too. But of course, Fate couldn't abide him getting even a little bit comfortable, so she'd smacked him down straightaway like the cruel bitch she was.

No, not Fate. Angelus. Once more proving that he owned nothing, had nothing except what charity he was given, no rights to family or pleasure or happiness on his own. Spike choked on a sob, the memory of that first put down rising up to choke him, reminding him that nothing had really changed in over a hundred years, as far as Angel was concerned. He was still the fledgling that had to be put in his place.

But why? Was it so wrong to want to belong? To dream of seeing approval and maybe even pride glowing in a pair of dark eyes for him? To hope, just once, that someone might look at him and say they loved him and mean it? Or, barring any of that, to gain just a little peace in his life, to find a place that he might call home even if he never found anyone willing to let him call them family? Angel had that, had it in Sunnydale with Buffy and now had it here with these humans. What sin had Spike committed that was so much worse than his sire? Why was he the one that was judged and found lacking? How was he so different that they found him unacceptable in every single place he tried to settle?

And there was no doubt that he was unacceptable here. Hadn't he heard it from Angel's own lips? _Worthless. Good only to beat on_. Not that he'd thought himself of being all that much good here, but Fred had seemed to enjoy having him around the lab, and even Wesley, disapproving as he usually was, unbent enough to share a few drinks at the pub the other night. That was what made him think he might have a chance here, but he'd just been kidding himself. Angel would tell them about the years he'd spent drenched in blood, the last heinous act that had driven him across the ocean to Africa, and he knew what he'd see in their eyes when he went back up, the judgement and distrust that would linger there. And why not? He was a monster, after all. Harris had said so for years and it was only natural that Angel's humans would agree.

In his darkest hour, a faint thought drifted up from the depths of his heart, a whisper that he'd carried for years and managed to exclude until this moment: _What if Angelus was right?_ What if it wasn't Angel who was wrong, but Spike? Angel never needed anyone like Spike did, never cared what anyone thought of him.

Spike had always thought his sire a fool for closing himself off like that, but now he saw clearly for the first time. It was simple, really, so simple that it had escaped him for well over a century. _Those who never needed anyone never got hurt._ That was the real secret to life. If he didn't need love, didn't care about approval, then he could never feel the lack of it. And wasn't Angel proof enough that it worked? His life was all about the pursuits he chose-first death and destruction, now salvation and redemption. People didn't factor into it, unless they furthered those goals, and his heart was safe because of it.

Spike raised his head, eyes glittering in the darkness as he seized upon the answer that had always eluded him, the way to finally silence the laughter that had followed him from party to grave and beyond. He just had to let go, had to quit caring and it wouldn't matter anymore. And he could do it, too. Hadn't he remade himself completely before? He'd shoved the ponce William into a closet in the back of his mind and kept him at bay for a century before the chip had set him free again. So now all he had to do was corral him again, but this time, he wouldn't bother with a closet. Why imprison something that might get loose again? No, William and all his caring, all his desires, all his love... William had to go away for good.

Wiping his tears away, Spike got to his feet, a new determination burning in him as he turned and headed for the stairs. He'd need a few days to figure out just how to go about this, but once he did he'd put it all into action and then... then they'd see who was worthless.


	3. Chapter 3

After three hours, Angel gave up. He got out of bed and walked over to the window, staring sightlessly out at the night. He hadn't slept well ever since he'd gotten his soul, but the last four nights had been worse than usual. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Spike's stricken face and heard his own careless words again. It might not have been so bad if he could just forget about Spike's eyes. God, those eyes! They'd gone from clear blue to almost navy in seconds, filled with an agony that went beyond pain to utter devastation.

Just the briefest thought of those eyes and he could feel Angelus surge up inside him, straining at the bonds that held him back, roaring his fury that anyone would hurt his boy. Angel snorted. _His boy_. Like he'd ever really given a damn about William when he'd had him. Angelus had only ever cared about how much it would take to shatter the young poet's spirit, and when pain had failed, he'd turned to sex, but the key to William had eluded him until just before he was ensouled. It was the tantalizing hint of possibility, the words that hinted at something more, something deeper, that were to have brought William to his knees. Instead, a Gypsy curse had changed everything, turned predator to prey and altered both their lives forever.

That first sight of his childe after all their time apart was something Angel knew he would never forget. He'd been magnificent, the white-blond hair and black leather only the outward signs of a fierce, wild creature, a vampire that Angelus would have loved to claim as his own. But it had been easy then to shove that faint tingling down and concentrate on what needed to be done. It wasn't until later that Angel saw the boy he remembered and longed for, when a pack of pathetic humans and a hopeless love had done their damage, when those blue eyes were bright with an inner light that refused to die. But by then it was too late. William was Spike, and he hated Angel.

Or at least, that's what Angel told himself. He had to, really. If he was hated, it was easier to lash out with the words that would keep them at a distance. If he wasn't accepted, he never thought about why his bed felt too big and empty so often. If he wasn't wanted, it didn't hurt when he ended up alone again, the way he always did sooner or later. The only problem was that Spike refused to play his part. He'd yell and stalk away after an argument, but the idiot kept coming back. And what was worse, every time he did, those blue eyes always seemed like they were laughing at him, inviting him to share in a joke that Angel never quite got.

Not that Angel not getting it was unusual. He often didn't, whether it was the Scoobies in Sunnydale or his own friends at the Hyperion, but it had never bothered him that much. Only after Spike was thrust back into his life did Angel begin to realize that he was missing out on something important. Spike didn't hang back in the dark corners and listen silently; he burst out into the light, thrust himself in the middle of the crowd and told stories that left everyone laughing. Spike traded quips with his friends and got all their pop culture references. Spike went out drinking with Wesley and killing demons with Gunn, and Angel didn't think he'd be all that surprised to learn that Spike was helping Fred on one of her projects, somehow. God knows he spent enough time in the lab, but she never seemed to mind, always seemed to be laughing at something Spike said whenever Angel saw them together.

Or at least, she used to. She couldn't anymore, because Spike was gone. He'd left right after The Incident, as Wesley called it, and nobody had seen him since. That was four days ago, and while he'd never admit it, Angel was beginning to worry. Spike might slink away to lick his wounds in private, but he always came bouncing back, usually twice as loud and obnoxious as ever. To have him disappear like this without a trace, with no word left for anyone, was unsettling, to say the least. The whole office felt it, and while the sullen looks from his secretary and the outright glares from Fred cut deep, nothing could hurt as much as the growing sense that this time, he'd truly crossed the line of no return.

So where did that leave him? If Spike never came back, Angel would never be able to apologize, to tell him how much he regretted those thoughtless, stupid words. But how was he supposed to do that even if Spike did show up one day? Simply saying he was sorry couldn't be enough, and admitting he'd been wrong was unthinkable, unless he wanted to spend the next hundred years hearing his childe gloat. Still, there had to be some way to fix this...

The memory of another wounded friend and a happy scream of delight struck like lightning. Angel's eyes lit up and a smile appeared for the first time in almost a week. Of course! It was so simple- how could he not have thought of it sooner? Although he didn't think Spike would really want a new wardrobe. Maybe a laptop instead? And one of those little music players all the mailroom people wore, too. He turned away from the window and headed for the showers, a new spring in his step. There was a lot of shopping to do before Spike turned up again, but it would be worth it to see those blue eyes shine again.


	4. Chapter 4

Time was a funny thing. It all depended on your point of view, really. If you were waiting for a lover to come back from a trip or counting those last days until Christmas, seven days dragged out into eternity. But on the other hand, when you were blissfully happy and at your beloved's side, a week flew by with a breathtaking speed. And when you were remaking yourself, rebuilding the being you wanted to be from entirely new fabric, it simply wasn't enough. Not seven days or seven weeks... seven centuries couldn't possibly be enough to form a person, but then there had been times that it happened in the blink of an eye. 

Nobody knew when William became Spike. Not even Spike could pinpoint the exact second, but he knew it had been swift and painless, a bloodless birth that let him see the world through entirely new eyes. He only wished his second transformation could have been that easy. It had happened in a flash of gold, although he knew that wasn't entirely accurate. That bright light had only been the last step in a journey that had taken several years to complete. The aftermath had been the real pain, though, despite the kind and caring hands that were there to catch him when he eventually fell and showed his true colors, as he'd always known he would. 

He wondered how he would remember this change, what he would think of years from now if he looked back on this time in his life. Would he recall the warm brown eyes of the girl at his side when it happened? Would he hear again the crisp accented tones that had spoken in his favor? Or would it all be lost in the red wash of pain, only those words standing out like blazing jewels against a black velvet background? 

Spike shook his head and told himself not to be so maudlin. This was for the best, and the new him was bound to meet with a few stumbling blocks, but overall it was an improvement. But then, anything was better than bleeding his heart out over a few words from the vampire that used to be his sire, right? He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, holding his head high as the elevator chimed and the doors opened. Like he hadn't run out as though he were being chased by hellhounds, just as though he hadn't been missing and out of all contact for a week, Spike strolled into the office, ignoring the amazed looks and stunned greetings just like he'd seen Angel do. 

"Hi Spikey!" Harmony looked up from her desk, smiling brightly at the sight of the blond. "Oooh, you haven't been in your office yet, have you? Please say no, cause I really wanna be the one to show you all the- oops! I'm not supposed to say, but wait'll you see it!" 

He frowned. "My... office? What the hell are you rabbitin' on about now, Harm?" 

She giggled and abandoned her fashion magazine, bounding around the desk to grab his hand. Spike followed her when she tugged on his hand- it was either that or get towed, but when she led him down the hall and opened the door with a squeal, he wished he'd just planted his feet and made her drag him after all. 

The boardroom had been made over into an office suite that rivaled Angel's for luxury. Plush Berber carpet in a deep forest green covered the floors, while the walls were painted a simple cream. Prints from various movies and a Sex Pistols poster sat side by side with what he was pretty sure was an original Jackson Pollock, but the combination worked somehow. A large dark brown leather sofa and deep reading chair were arranged in front of a flat screen TV that took up at least a quarter of the wall. And at the far end of the room, there was a mammoth oak desk, piled with boxes that contained the very latest in electronics and technology. 

Spike stood in the doorway and stared until Harmony giggled and said, "Well, come on in, silly!" 

"This is- Angel bought all this? For me?" He touched the plaque on the door that had his name written on it, his voice soft and wondering, like a child standing face to face with Santa Claus. 

"Duh." Harmony shook her head and snorted. "Unless you know anybody else that he's trying to kiss up to." 

"What?!?" The outrage in Spike's voice was lost on the vapid blonde, because she just shrugged and went to peek in the private bathroom. "Angel said the stuff would make you smile again. I think he's trying to get you to forgive him for-" 

"Right, then. Well, we'll just see about that," Spike muttered. He snatched up the first item he saw and stalked down the hall to Angel's office, jaw tight and eyes blazing with blue fire.


	5. Chapter 5

Spike stalked into Angel's office and slammed a box down on top of the desk. “What's this?”

Angel didn't look up from his paperwork as he replied, “What's it look like? It's an iPed.“

“I know it's an _iPod_, ya ponce. What I mean is, what's it doin' on my desk?”

“How am I supposed to know? Maybe you ordered it off the internet with my credit card, like you do almost everything else.”

“An' just how was I supposed to do that when I've been gone for the last soddin' week?” Spike arched one eyebrow, ignoring the faint stab of betrayal and hurt at the thought that Angel either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared that he'd been gone that long. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to let that pillock win, not even a little bit.

Forcing an outward calm that was only half-felt, Spike folded his arms, leveled a hard look at Angel and continued. “See, here's the thing: only employees get offices an' somehow I doubt those come with iPods an' PS2s. Now, you'd think I'd remember orderin' gadgets like those, wouldn't you? Or agreein' to work for Monsters, Inc. But seein' as how I didn't do either, you mind tellin' me what the _fuck_ is goin' on with the brand new office an' desk full of expensive pressies deal?”

Angel laid his pen down and sighed. “All right, so I bought them. I just thought that since the rest of us have benefitted with the move to Wolfram &amp; Hart that you could -“

“Could what? Sell my soul as easy as you sold yours? You think just cause you gave up the fight that nobody else can do it, is that it?“

The accusation stung, the words hitting home more than he wanted to admit. Shoving his chair back, Angel stood up and glared at Spike. “Feel free to shut up at any time, Spike. You don't know why - you have no clue about what went on here!”

“Is that right?” Spike met Angel's heated look with an icy one of his own. “Reckon I can see a lot more than you're willin' to admit, _sire._”

_Sire._ The angry word hung between them, the one word neither had uttered since Spike's resurrection. The truth of his existence that made Angel want to gather him close and at the same time shove him away, deny his childe the same way Spike had denied him. “The way I hear it, I'm not your sire, _boy._ Or are you gonna try and tell me that you _didn't_ tell Buffy that it was Drusilla who made you? Maybe you should go bug her for a change, then? If she'd have you anywhere near her, that is. That way I might have some peace to get a little work done.“

“Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? That way you'd get to pretend you never saw me instead of tryin' to buy me off like some cheap whore!”

Angel's hand hit the desk with a loud bang, rattling pens and overturning his coffee cup. Blood poured over his paperwork, but he didn't notice, didn't look away from those accusing blue eyes. “Jesus! Why can't you just for_ once_ admit that you like something I got you? I promise I won't tell anybody, so your whole 'I hate Angel' act can go on, but quit being such a goddamn child about it!“ The words hung in the air, so thick that he could almost see them, and he silently cursed himself for letting the blond get to him - again. Sitting back down, Angel picked his pen up again and said quietly, “Do whatever you want with the stuff, Spike.“

Spike's confused frown changed to an almost subdued look that Angel might have called disappointment if he'd been looking. The blond turned and walked towards the door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. “It's not as easy as you think. You wanna dangle a few shiny trinkets, hand over a couple new toys an' make everythin' go away. But it doesn't work that way, mate.”

“I just wanted to make you happy,” Angel said, but the quiet words were lost in the slam of the door that shook the windows and left him sitting at his desk, alone in his empty office wondering how he'd managed to screw up so badly once more.


	6. Chapter 6

The news of Spike's return swept through the office like wildfire. The entire building knew about it within the hour, but nobody wanted to be the first to attempt to talk to the volatile vampire, not after they'd spent the last week with an increasingly ill-tempered Angel. Given Spike's own temper and well-known propensity for violence, most generally thought it best not to approach him, especially after Harmony's report that the blond had gone straight to his sire's office was circulated. 

When she heard about the raised voices and angry blond that had been spotted near Angel's office, Fred found herself torn between her friends. On the one hand, she wanted to go find Spike, yell at him for making them all worry by disappearing like that, then hug the living daylights out of him, but on the other, she'd seen the unhappiness behind Angel's foul mood all too easily. He was hurting over the damage he'd done to his childe, but unlike Spike, he didn't allow people near enough to recognize it. In the end, she sent Spike a text message making it clear that he was expected to show up at her apartment for dinner, then headed over to Angel's office. 

The empty room and blood-smeared paperwork on the desk spoke volumes, but it was the heavy silence that was truly chilling. She looked around, wondering why she'd never noticed before how stark and cold the office was. How could Angel work in here? Didn't he miss the cozy comfort of the Hyperion, the books that used to surround them everywhere, the laughter of friends and co-workers that filled the lobby and offices? Fred shivered and hurried back out, deciding to check Spike's office to see if the blond had holed up there to sulk. 

He hadn't, but she found the missing CEO sitting on the couch surrounded by boxes and gadgets. "Angel?" she asked quietly, closing the door as she walked into the office. 

He didn't look up from the small iPod in his hand for several minutes, and just as she was about to leave, he said quietly, "He didn't want it. He doesn't want any of it." _He doesn't want me._ The words rang out as clearly as if he'd said them, and Fred found herself softening towards the vampire's obvious misery. 

"I think you caught him a little off-guard with the whole Santa Claus thing," she suggested gently. "Look, Angel, I know you feel bad about what happened, but... maybe what Spike really wants is an apology?" 

He shook his head. "He wouldn't take one, not from me." Angelus had trained his boy too well for that. Accepting an apology meant acknowledging hurt, which gave the other person power. It was a lesson that had been forged in blood and pain, and sealed with brutal beatings and rapes too numerous to think about that hammered it home over a period of several long years, and just the thought of it was enough to make him swallow to hold back the bile that threatened to surge up. Tricking Spike into accepting apologies and punishing him for the weakness had been one of Angelus' favorite sadistic games. Eventually Spike had learned the rules and now there was little doubt he could play with the best of them. "He doesn't want anything to do with me anymore." 

Fred didn't say anything, mostly because she thought he might be right. Sometimes the two of them acted so much like the cousins that used to brawl on the front porch of her grandmother's house, throwing insults back and forth with a speed and facility that was dazzling, that it was easy to forget that they'd been at it since long before she was born. There was no easy camraderie here, no sense of family that always brought her cousins back together, no good humored laughter to bring them out of the momentary anger. This was real, and the pain in Angel's eyes said it was the final blow in a deadly battle. 

There was no advice she could offer, no homegrown wisdom that might make things better, so she settled on just saying lamely, "If there's anything I can do, let me know." Giving his hand a squeeze, she slipped out into the hallway, then headed for the comfort of Wesley's office and arms. 

Angel didn't move for a long time after she left. He looked down at the iPod, remembering Spike's accusation that he had tried to buy him. He hadn't wanted that, though- he'd just wanted to do something that might bring the sparkle back to his eyes. Maybe he'd gone about it the wrong way. Spike loved presents, but he was always wanting something more... personal. That was it! Making up his mind, he tightened his grip on the player, stood up and walked out of the office, heading for the one person he knew that could show him how to make this right. 

"Fred? Could you... help me with something?"


	7. Chapter 7

Fred glared at the blond vampire, who returned the look with equal heat. "Said no an' that's it. An' you can tell the ponce from me that sendin' a woman to do his beggin' is pretty damn pathetic." 

"Well, what's he supposed to do when you won't talk to him? And just so we're clear, he didn't send me. I'm asking you to do this because I think it's right. And if you think I'd do it if I didn't believe him, then you just don't know me nearly as well as I thought you did." She held the iPod out to him again, but he ignored it. 

Spike crossed his arms and leaned against the desk in the undecorated office he'd claimed as his own. It wasn't the sumptuous luxury palace Angel had set up, but this one didn't come with strings as the other one obviously did, either. Fred might believe that Angel's gifts were just because he was 'family', but Spike knew better. Angelus' gifts always had some hidden catch that you never saw until it was too late and you'd already accepted. "What's the big deal with the soddin' player, anyway? Not like it's some rare find. Could go out an' get one if I really wanted to." 

"You can't get one that's already loaded!" Fred burst out before she thought about it. She quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes rounding as she realized what she'd just given away. She'd promised Angel that she wouldn't tell, but the thought of all his hard work going to waste just because Spike was being stubborn had been too much for her to stand. And part of her thought that Spike deserved to know, if for no other reason than to show that, despite what he or Angel might say, he was worth a great deal. 

One eyebrow rose. "Already got the tunes, does it? Imagine that must've been a specialty service."  
   
She nodded. "It took three days to get it right. Don't tell him I told you, though, okay? He wanted it to be a surprise." 

"Three days? Good help must be gettin' hard to come by, then." 

It took her a second to realize what he meant. "You think he paid someone to- no! Spike, he did this himself." 

The blond snorted. "Paid for it himself, y'mean." 

"No, I mean he did it himself. As in, wrote down the music, looked it up, downloaded it and put it on the player, all on his own. Well, okay, I had to show him how one or five times, cause you know about Angel and technology, but-" 

Spike stared at her, eyes widening as what she was saying sank in. Angel had actually set it up? Come up with the songs and gone to the trouble to get them, just for him? He reached out and took the iPod from her, staring at it long after Fred had made some kind of excuse and left the room. 

Deciding that he might as well see what was on there, he pressed the power button and scrolled down to the music library. Probably a lot of classical music with some Manilow shit mixed in, maybe a Sex Pistols song or two, given that Angel had been the one to pick it out. And sure enough, the first word he saw was ballet. Grinning at his sire's predictability, Spike slipped one of the earpieces into his ear and pressed play, then picked random play, just in case the old boy actually did have any surprises for him. 

The light notes and hard chords that filled his ear caught him off-guard. He'd thought it would be something slow and sleepy, like Swan Lake, but this was more boisterous, gayer and more carefree than Angel's usual dull tunes. The music slowed and he frowned. He knew that music, had heard it before but- "No, that's crazy," he muttered as a faint recollection of a night in a theatre with a private box and his sire all to himself tugged at him. He glanced at the player and nearly dropped it when he saw _William's Ballet_ listed there. 

Sure that it had to be some kind of fluke, he tapped the button to go to the next song and about fell out of his chair when he heard a hard rock song that he'd heard over and over again at the Bronze, about the singer longing for a woman that already had a lover. _Wanting What I Lost_, read the title caption. 

For the next several hours, Spike listened to everything from classical to driving rock, metal and some songs that were so poignant he could practically taste the singer's pain. The titles, though... the titles were enough to make him dash a hand roughly across his eyes, with phrases like _My Boy_ and _All Alone_ making it clear why each song had been picked. When the last one had finished, he pressed stop and stood up, then headed upstairs to find Angel.


	8. Chapter 8

Angel didn't bother to turn the light on as he walked into the apartment. Shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it over the back of a chair, then trudged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He pulled a bag of blood out and was about to put it in the microwave when a voice said, “Why'd you do it, then?”

Somehow he managed not to drop the packet, but set it down on the counter instead. Without turning around, he replied, “Does it really matter?”

“ I'm thinkin' it might, yeah.” Spike snapped the light on as he stood up and walked towards him, but just when he was close enough to feel, he stopped. “Made a bit of a statement, there, didn't you? Got me wonderin' what's goin' on, what it is you're really after, here.” 

The implication that he'd had an ulterior motive stung, but Angel was really too tired to argue about it. Shoving the blood into the microwave, he started it up, then turned around and leaned back against the counter. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to do something nice for you because you deserved it?”

Spike didn't hesitate. “No.”

Angel sighed. “Fine, have it your way. I did it for whatever reason you want to believe.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and walked over to the cabinet to retrieve a coffee cup.

But when he turned back to the microwave, Spike was standing in his way. “Not buyin' that one, mate. Way I see it, this is some kinda guilt bit. That, or you're tryin' to get me on my back. So which is it?”

He shoved him aside and retrieved the blood bag, busying himself with the small task of preparing his dinner in an effort to hide the hurt that Spike's accusation had roused. “Does it matter? You're gonna think what you want, anyway, so why should I bother saying anything?”

“ Kinda like to know exactly why I'm hatin' someone, don't I?”  Hate? He  _ hated _ him? Angel's head snapped to the side, but Spike wasn't looking at him, had shoved his hands in his pockets and was currently scowling down at the linoleum.

He was quiet for a while, still trying to figure out what to do with this new information. Finally he said quietly, “You never hated me before.”

“ First time for everythin'.” Spike shrugged and kicked at the floor. He seemed to realize that he wasn't going to get an answer to his question, or at least not one that he'd like, so he started towards the door. And that was what shook Angel out of his stupor. Somehow he knew that if he let the blond walk out now, he'd never get him back, not in any way.

Lunging after him, he grabbed one arm and spun the younger man around. “Spike, wait.” But he didn't have words for what he needed to say, didn't know how to tell him about the regret that had been his almost constant companion, so he kissed him instead.

Spike stiffened and started to pull away, but Angel's tongue stroked over his lips, coaxing his mouth open, and he was lost. His hands slid up to grip Angel's shoulders, fingers digging into flesh through the thin button-down shirt he wore. When he broke away, it was to stare at Angel before lunging for him, bringing their mouths crashing together once more.

Tongues slid in and out, dueling and stroking as they clung to each other, and it wasn't long before kissing wasn't enough. Angel's shirt was the first to go, followed quickly by Spike's black T-shirt. He wanted to slow down, wanted to savor this contact with his childe, the first in over a century, but hunger drove them both forward, and before he could stop himself, he was yanking Spike's jeans open and shoving his own pants down, sinking to the floor with Spike beneath him.

They didn't even make it to the bedroom, too needy and anxious to wait. Instead, they rutted like animals right there in the kitchen, warm blood easing the way as he shoved inside the slim body, tearing sounds out of Spike's mouth that he'd never dreamed a human throat could make. It was quick and brutal, the antithesis of the slow lovemaking he secretly yearned for, but when Spike howled out in climax, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Besides, he promised himself right before he followed Spike over the edge, they'd take it slow the next time. He'd make sure of it.


	9. Chapter 9

It was only an hour past sunrise when Spike slid out of bed, gathered his clothes, and crept out of the penthouse. Angel had still been asleep, tangled in sheets that reeked of semen and blood, the almost overpowering scent like a virtual slap in the face. And unlike other puppies, Spike didn't need his nose rubbed in his mess to know when he'd fucked up.

And he'd really fucked up this time. Sleeping with Angel was a mistake- it always had been. Not the sex, of course; they'd never had trouble with that, but everything that came afterwards. Angelus used to think a good rogering gave him ownership rights, and he'd always treat Spike like a fledge for days afterwards, expecting him to fall down and worship the god that had made him come his brains out. And okay, sometimes he'd let it play out, but more often than not, Spike had retaliated by acting out worse than ever, just to prove that he might take it up the ass, but he was still his own man. Angelus would string him up and beat on him, torture him for a few days, then promptly cut him down and forget about him until he decided he wanted to stick it to him again. And then the whole thing would start all over...

But it hadn't been Angelus fucking him last night- it had been Angel, soul and all. And Spike had never slept with Angel. He wondered if the poncy soul was going to try and make this some kind of big romantic gesture, if they were going to have to sit down and have the whole 'relationship talk', just like some bints always wanted to do, or if he'd try to pretend it hadn't happened. Putting it to other blokes wasn't really good for the whole hero of the world image, after all, or at least that's how Spike figured Angel would see it. Probably accuse _Spike_ of seducing _him_, if it came to that, never mind that Angel'd been the one to grab him and kiss him, then practically rip his clothes off so he could bury himself to the hilt inside his ass.

He dressed in the elevator, managing to pull his shirt on just before the doors slid open, although thankfully it was still early enough that he probably could've walked starkers through the place without running into anybody. Spike raked a hand through his hair, hoping the whole gel-free look was more 'deliberately sexy' than 'snuck out of bed while the bloke I shagged was still unconscious'. Not that Angel would call that a bad thing, of course- probably be glad he didn't have to deal with the whole morning after bit.

Just like Spike. That whole scene always seemed to blow up in his face, so it was just as well that he wasn't going to have to worry about it this time. It wasn't like he'd cherished any delusions of waking up in Angel's arms to kisses and cuddles and soft words, anyway. Not like his time with Dru, where he'd wanted that sweetness so much he ached, and certainly not like that first morning with Buffy, where he'd have done anything for a smile or even a single kind word. No, he wasn't about to entertain any kind of hopes for something like that, not from the likes of Angel.

Of course, that didn't mean he'd turn down another shag if it was offered. Say what you will about Angel's boatload of emotional baggage and complete lack of anything even remotely approaching romance, he was one hell of a brilliant fuck. The man had a cock that really was deserving of symphonies, but the best part was that he knew exactly how to use it to drive his bed partners clear up the wall and back. And there were too few blokes like that around for Spike to just walk away from one. The fact that said bloke happened to be the sire who couldn't stand him was a triviality.

So that left him one choice, really: fuck Angel, but keep it a strictly physical thing. Spike had learned his lesson about that in Sunnydale, and he wasn't about to fall into the same trap twice. This time around he knew exactly how to play it, and he wasn't going to deviate from the plan. Keep it simple- sex whenever either of them wanted it, but nothing else. No messy feelings, no pining for someone that would never in a million years love him back, no yearning for anything except a good hard fuck or a nice long suck.

But what would Angel say to something like that? Would he laugh at Spike, call him a bitch in heat for wanting it, or maybe, just maybe, would he actually listen for once? Unfortunately, there was no way to tell without putting the proposition forward. If he wanted to know, if he really wanted it, he'd have to take the risk and ask. Of course, there was nothing in the rules that said that Angel had to be stone cold sober when he did...

Spike grinned and set out in search of a few bottles of whiskey. Hopefully he could get his hands on the really good Irish stuff; pour a couple of bottles of that down Angel's throat and the clothes should just fly right off. And if Spike couldn't convince him to see it his way once they were naked, then he'd have a lot bigger problem than one broody vampire- he'd have an apocalypse to stop!


	10. Chapter 10

He hadn't expected to wake up alone. Angel knew he should be used to it by now - after all, if three months of having Spike in his bed at least twice a week hadn't taught him any better, then he had Spike's own words to tell him how it was going to be. But he couldn't seem to shake the odd, wistful thought that maybe _this_ time would be different, that tomorrow would be the day he'd wake up with Spike beside him, curled up in his arms like the affectionate young vampire he'd first claimed for his own. It never happened, of course, but Angel couldn't seem to stop wishing for it.  
  
The cuts and scratches on his back protested as he shoved the covers back and rolled out of bed, forcing himself to his feet. Ever since they'd started this... whatever it was, the sex hadn't exactly been gentle, but until last night, Angel had always been able to tell himself that the bruises they often sported were the result of a passion that was too fierce to hold back. He wanted to believe that they tore at each other out of hunger and a need that couldn't wait, but it was getting harder and harder to keep convincing himself of that.  
  
He washed and dressed quickly, despite the temptation to linger under the hot water and let it soothe some of the aches away. Once he was ready for the day, he went downstairs to his office, where he did his best to pretend that he didn't see the avid gazes that followed him or hear the low buzz of gossip that kept his secretary on the phone half the time that she was supposed to be working. He'd never understand how Harmony could keep her fingers firmly on the pulse of the office and still manage to have all of his documents typed and filed, with plenty of time to spare for nail care, but as long as business ran smoothly, he wasn't about to ask questions and risk upsetting her.  
  
Soon after he sat down at his desk, Harmony appeared in his office with a cup of blood and the first of what promised to be many problems. This time it was a Morshuk clan complaining about the city's new gentrification projects, which were intruding on their breeding grounds. Angel made a mental note to have Gunn look into either relocation for the clan, or some kind of red tape to slow the project down until fall, when the Morshuks would enter torpor for the winter. Of course, once he'd finished reviewing that case, there were three others waiting in his in box, part of the perpetual flood that of paperwork that had started when they moved in, and showed little signs of ever stopping. The day passed in its usual tedious way, every hour grinding on, wearing him down a little more until he felt as thin as rice paper by the end of the day.   
  
When he finally made his way back upstairs, all he really wanted was a hot shower, a few cups of blood, and a night alone in his room with some Schubert and a good book. What he got, however, was Spike. He'd barely stepped into his apartment before he was pinned back against the door, any possible protests silenced by Spike's mouth. Hands slid down his body, cupping him and stroking him through his slacks, coaxing him to an aching hardness that made argument impossible. "Thought you'd never get done," Spike muttered, biting his lower lip when he opened his mouth to reply. "Nearly gave up an' left."  
  
"You could've come down to the office," Angel pointed out, tilting his head back to give Spike better access as he began to unbutton his shirt. "Let me know you were here." _And that you wanted me._ He'd never expected to want to hear that from Spike, of all people, but now he thought he'd gladly sacrifice just a little of the mindmelting heat in bed if he could just know that it meant something.  
  
Spike finished unbuttoning his shirt, stripping him out of it and his pants with quick, efficient movements. "Figured you'd show, eventually," he pointed out. "An' if I got tired of waitin', then it would've been your loss, now, wouldn't it?"  
  
For half a second, Angel considered actually pushing him away. They needed to talk- they couldn't keep on this way, tearing at each other in private, sneaking around like they're some kind of deviants, afraid that somebody will find out what's going on. He doesn't want that, not anymore. Spike would laugh his head off if he said anything, but Angel wants to be able to kiss Spike whenever he feels like it instead of waiting until he's up here, or have him go along on patrol and share a little of the champion's burden with him, or sit down to dinner with him and his friends without worrying about who might say what. He wants... well, he wants a relationship.  
  
But Spike isn't about to wait for him to stay anything. He wrapped a hand around his dick and started to stroke him. "So hard," Spike muttered. "Were you waitin' for this, pet? Hard an' needy down there in your office, just thinkin' about gettin' your hands on me? Yeah, you were, weren't you?"  
  
"Oh, God. Wait - Spike, wait," Angel moaned, agreement and protest combined, but Spike didn't pay attention, just ripped his jeans open and pressed up against him, hard length sliding slickly over hard length. Everything except Spike and the rhythm he was setting, hard and fast, ceased to matter as they kissed, tongues twining like snakes, and Angel's last conscious thought before he came was a promise to himself that they'd talk afterwards.


	11. Chapter 11

Spike was starting to get - well, not worried, because worrying would mean he cared, and he _didn't_, he genuinely didn't, but... concerned, at any rate. Angel had been shut up in his apartment for two days now, ever since he'd found out that his seer had kicked it. According to Fred, Angel had been head over heels for the bint, so all of his friends were naturally bending over backwards to be 'understanding' of his grief, figuring that he needed time to get over losing the woman he'd loved. Of course, that had absolutely nothing to do with Spike heading right up to the penthouse as soon as everyone else left for the night - he was just tired of the ponce getting to wallow in self-pity, was all.  
  
Easing the door open, Spike waited to see if a sharp object was going to come hurtling at his head. When it didn't, he pushed the door farther open and slipped inside. "Angel?" There was no answer, so he started down the hallway, frowning at the crumpled papers and empty bottles that littered the floor. "Angel? You back there, pet?"  
  
"Go away," was the low response.  
  
He snorted at the very idea of Angel believing he could make him leave that easily, and headed into the bedroom. Angel was slouched in one of his large leather chairs, staring out the window into darkness, but Spike doubted he was really appreciating the view. "How long's it been since you had somethin' to eat, mate? Or a decent night's sleep, huh?"  
  
"None of your business." Light glinted on crystal as Angel raised his glass to his lips again, draining it in one long swallow.   
  
He set it on the table beside the chair and reached for the bottle, but Spike was faster, and yanked it out of his hands before he could refill it. "Uh-uh, not that fast, pet. Think you've been at it long enough - puttin' you to bed now."  
  
Angel huffed out a mirthless laugh. "Look, just... leave, okay? I'm really not in the mood for this right now."  
  
"Yeah, that'll work." Spike shook his head and kicked a heap of clothing aside. "C'mon, up you get." He set the bottle down and hauled him out of the chair, easily batting aside the hands that tried to push him away.  
  
"She loved me," Angel muttered. "She loved me, and she came back for me, and now she's dead. Everyone who loves me dies or leaves - guess I should be glad you don't love me after all, huh?"  
  
He didn't know what to do. Of the two of them, Angel was the stalwart one, steady and constant and unemotional, but here he was acting like... well, like Spike. Or like the pathetic wanker he used to be, Spike corrected himself, forever yearning after what - and who - he couldn't have. He really should just walk off and leave the old bastard to fend for himself, but there was something so forlorn about him that Spike just couldn't turn his back on him. "Should give some thought to soberin' up, y'know. Pretty sure your seer wouldn't want you crawlin' into the bottle like this."  
  
"What the hell do you care?" Angel demanded belligerently. "You're just in it for the sex, so why does it matter, anyway?"  
  
Spike blocked his wild swing and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back. Ignoring Angel's muttered curses, he used the hold to steer the larger man over to the bed, giving him a push that sent him sprawling out on the mattress. From there, it was an easy enough thing to flip him over and yank his shoes off.  
  
Angel tried to kick him, but there wasn't much effort in it, and he gave up after the first shoe came off. He didn't put up any more resistance as Spike finished removing his shoes and socks, but he stirred when the blond began to unbutton his shirt. "I don't wanna fuck right now, Spike," he mumbled, blinking blearily up at him. "Maybe tomorrow night. It won't matter then if you don't..."  
  
"Don't what?" But there was no answer; Angel had passed out mid-ramble. Spike looked at him for a minute, wondering what he'd been going to say, although he reminded himself again that he didn't care. And undressing Angel and pulling a blanket up over him had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to make him comfortable, just like spending the night in the chair watching over his sleeping sire was purely so Spike could savor the pained moans and tortured cries of his drunken nightmares, not because he wanted to be nearby if Angel needed him. Now all he had to do was convince himself that he meant every single evil thought...


	12. Chapter 12

About three seconds after Angel woke up, he wished he hadn't. His whole body ached, from his little toes all the way up to his hair - his _hair_, for God's sake! His tongue was dry and felt twice as thick as normal in his mouth, which only served to make him extra aware of the fact that his teeth were coated with some kind of scuzzy film that made him wonder if he'd somehow tried to eat a Slugnoth demon before he passed out last night.  
  
Last night. Shit. He wondered if he'd actually told Spike he didn't want to sleep with him or if he'd just imagined that. Angel pried his eyes open, wincing as he tried to blink past the gummy residue of too little sleep. Light made his entire head throb and his stomach roll in a way that made him glad that vampires didn't get sick, no matter how hungover they were.  
  
And he was definitely hungover. It had taken several days of steady drinking to get there, but he'd finally managed to block it all out, if only for a little while. Not that he would ever be able to forget, not really. He'd carry the memory of Cordy's eyes with him until he dusted, which was looking like it would be soon, if the things she'd shown him were true. They were heading into a fight, one that he already knew he couldn't win. But at least he could try not to take any more people he loved down with him.  
  
Swallowing hard, Angel sat up and immediately regretted it. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunching over to lean his aching head into his hands. "Stupid," he muttered softly, not really sure if he was referring to trying to drown his sorrows in a bottle (okay, five bottles) or his short-sightedness in not realizing exactly how awful he was going to feel when he finally sobered up.  
  
He pushed himself to his feet, staggering a little when his rubbery legs threatened to give way, but after a wobbly step or two, he managed to find his balance. Or at least as close as he was going to come to that right now, anyway. Angel ran a hand over his face and yawned, then turned to head for the shower.  
  
And froze. Because there was a body in the chair next to his bed. A very familiar, very blond, currently unconscious body. "Spike," he whispered, wondering what the hell he was doing there. Had he been there all night? And more importantly, why hadn't he left when he realized Angel wasn't up to the usual fuck-his-brains-out routine? Why stay in the chair, like he was watching? Like he cared?  
  
That was the worst part of it, and he had to hope that during whatever drunken ramblings he'd done last night, he hadn't somehow let it slip how much he wished Spike really did care. If Spike knew about that, he'd never let him live it down. Angelus had taught him too well for that - weakness was to be punished and exploited at all costs, and caring was nothing if not a weakness. Especially caring for the childe that hated him and would rejoice at seeing him turn into dust.  
  
How had it come to this, that they could only fuck or fight? Was this what they were damned to do for the rest of time? Were they only going to manage momentary truces, nothing true or lasting between them? The thought was too damned depressing to contemplate, particularly with his head pounding the way it was. Angel might not know exactly what he'd hoped for, what he'd wanted when they started this, but he knew it wasn't this. He hadn't wanted to start the whole damned cycle all over again, but it seemed like he had.  
  
Somehow Angel managed to make it past Spike so he could get into the bathroom without waking him. Once the door was locked behind him, he stripped off his boxers (very deliberately _not_ thinking about why he was only wearing underwear when he didn't remember undressing) and stepped into the shower. Four precisely-aimed showerheads and steaming hot water went a long way towards making his misery more bearable, especially when he decided he wasn't in any hurry to get out of the stall anytime soon.  
  
It was about ten minutes before he finally managed to reach for the soap, and it took a long time to wash himself, but Angel wasn't in any hurry. He doubted anybody would expect him to go into the office today, seeing as he hadn't been in all week, and getting out now would only mean he'd have to face Spike sooner rather than later.  
  
Come to think of it, maybe he should just spend the rest of the day in the shower.


	13. Chapter 13

The scent of blood woke him up, but there was something wrong about it, something he couldn’t quite place. It was familiar, disturbingly so, its heavenly perfume redolent with imagined moans and almost forgotten sighs. It almost smelled like - 

No. That was ridiculous. That sort of thing was strictly verboten here. Hadn’t Spike seen tossers stupid enough to break the rules get their heads lopped off often enough to know? He knew subtlety wasn’t Angelus’ strongest suit - never had been, never would be, but he liked to think he wouldn’t resort to something like this to get rid of him when he could just tell him to get the fuck out.

Eyeing the mug on the stool with the same wary caution he might give a Trezani demon, Spike leaned over to study it, but there was nothing clearly off-putting about it. He reached out to pick it up, then took a good sniff. Yep, human. Fresh and warm, nectar second only to Slayer's or sire's blood, although he still wasn't exactly sure why Angel would be giving him something like this. Not when he had otter, which was a damn sight better than pig. Of course, anything beat going hungry...

He took a careful sip, then a longer one when the sweet silky heat hit his taste buds. A groan slipped out with his third drink, and of course, that was when Angel walked into the room. Spike quickly lowered the mug and tried to think of an excuse when Angel said, "I was starting to think you weren't going to wake up."

"Spent most of the night makin’ sure your gigantic ass wasn’t gonna try to go out there to wait on the sunrise,” Spike automatically replied. “Takes it out of a bloke.” He raised his cup. “You wanna tell me why you’re puttin’ out the good stuff?”

“You need it,” Angel said, and it was only then that Spike noticed the mug in his sire’s hand. “We both do. Otter isn’t going to keep us at full strength, and we can’t afford to be weak now.”

Now what the hell did the tosser mean by that? Why would they need to be worried about something like that, unless - he thought about a golden girl with eyes far too old for her years and the blood she’d kept him fed on in those last weeks leading up to the battle, and he looked at Angel and saw the same weary determination in his face. So they were going to war. “Right, then,” he said and took a long, deep swallow.

Angel was watching him over the rim of his own mug when Spike lowered his drink, and for a few minutes, neither of them said anything as they fed in silence. Once they were done, Angel walked over to sit down on the bed. “I think we need to talk.”

Uh-oh. Spike knew what those words led to, and it was never anything good. Usually it meant he was about to lose his home, his lover, his friends, or his sire. Not that Angel had really been a sire to him for years, but he supposed that was what some part of him would always see the bastard as. Still, talking was bad. Talking meant someone had to leave, and Spike wasn’t ready to leave yet.

Sliding out of the chair, he dropped to his knees in front of Angel and ran his hands up his sire’s thighs, urging them apart. “Talkin’s overrated,” he told Angel, giving him his special flirty smile. “Got better things to do, yeah?” He reached for the button on Angel’s pants, but a hand stopped him. That was a first, and not a good one.

“Spike. We can’t keep doing this.” He ignored the warning tone in Angel’s voice and ducked down to mouth at the rising bulge in his slacks, scraping teeth over Angel’s cock through his pants. “Spike, wait -“

No. No waiting. Waiting meant talking and that meant losing what they had. And it might not be perfect, but it was better than nothing. Spike twisted his wrists, breaking free of Angel’s grip, then reached up to tear his pants open, making it perfectly clear that he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. “Seems to me we always found better uses for our time than talkin’, mate.”

“Spike…” His name came out on a moan, and Spike hid his smile in his sire’s crotch, nuzzling in against the silk boxers, opening his mouth to get them good and wet. He knew that moan, knew just how thin the protest behind it was and he wasn’t above exploiting every bit of that knowledge to get what he wanted. Angel always was at his most pliable after a good orgasm, and a nice, long, leisurely blowjob was a surefire way to make him come his brains out right down Spike’s throat. Yes, that was the answer - keep him good and satisfied and then there wouldn’t be any more of this ‘we have to talk’ nonsense.

Spike pulled the shorts down, opened up, and set about reminding Angel just what his sire had always said his mouth was perfect for.


End file.
